Well, it was out now. And to compound matters, the father of her child still worked for Catherine, who sought to overrun Poland. Countess Gronska did know the man with whom she had been arguing. It was her son! No wonder she flew into a rage. Walter must have told his mother that he was the father of Jan Michał and that he would detain Anna here. When she saw there was no dissuading him, she adroitly saw to it that the baby was secretly removed from his influence. Anna would never be able to repay her for that remarkable bit of cleverness.
With the greatest exertion, Anna sat up at the side of the bed, near the table which held the tray. She thought the meat pie wretched but swallowed it down, lubricated by small swallows of the watery and sour milk. Not long after, she called out to be attended because she was ill.
Anna awoke the next morning to the voice of Lilka, the Stelnicki housekeeper. “I’ve brought some breakfast, Countess Grawlinska.”
“Thank you,” Anna managed to whisper before the maid slipped out. The old woman reminded her of a very thin Lutisha.
Anna did feel better.
At mid-morning the officer who had come for Countess Gronska reappeared. His Polish was too good for a Russian. Anna suspected he was, like Walter, a Polish mercenary.
“All women are being summoned at once.”
Anna followed him out of her room.
Downstairs, she was brought to stand in a line with the servant women, and once assembled, they were marched into the reception room, where Walter lay on his sofa, propped up by several pillows.
Anna was mortified to be standing before him, like a beggar. She wanted to spit upon him but held her anger in check.
Eight or nine women stood stiffly with her in this line, several of them sniffling or crying out of fear of the man lounging on the sofa, his shirt open to reveal the black-haired chest and bloodstained bandage.
He took immediate notice of Anna. “Come here!”
Several of the women showed surprise at his demeanor toward her.
Anna moved to within two paces of him. She fought to stand erect and hold her head high.
“I said, Come here!” Walter attempted to reach out and take hold of her, but his wound caused him to recoil in pain.
Anna stood her ground.
He angrily reached out again, laying hold of her wrist and pulling her to him.
Anna struggled to release his grip and pull free. When his strength pulled her forward so that she almost fell atop him, she threw all of her weight backward, falling onto the floor when he released her.
Despite his obvious pain, he laughed and reached for her arm again, swinging around into a seated position on the sofa. He then put his booted foot against her side even while he continued to tug at her arm. “I’ll drive my foot through her,” he announced, “and through all of you who are stupid enough not to respond to my commands!”
The room became quiet as a cave. The women stood in speechless fear. All but for Lilka, whose disdain lurked in her blue eyes. This woman seemed to have her wits about her. It occurred to Anna that this servant must certainly have known Walter from his days of growing up on the neighboring estate.
Anna fought not to cry out, not to shed a tear.
“I am Captain Gronski,” Walter said. “You will all attend to me and do my bidding exactly as I say! This home has been taken over in the name of Catherine, Empress of Russia.”
The women stared, their faces like those of a tragic chorus.
“Old one,” he barked.
“Lilka,” she dared to say, stepping forward.
“Lilka, you will see that food and supplies be provided for my men. There are twenty of us. You are all to work from sunrise to dark, do you hear? At night you are not to waste candle or torch. For every one who runs off, the others will lose one finger. Am I understood? You will take no orders from the countess here; she is to have no freedom in this house. Should she escape, you will all die. Now move along. Go!”
As the women scurried into the kitchen, Walter released his hold on his cousin.
Anna crawled a few steps away and got to her feet. “I have been allied with the Empress,” she cried. “My name is on the document of the Confederacy. You have no right to detain me!”
“You have been allied?” he scoffed. “Zofia’s idea, no doubt. And who do you think gave her the idea?”
“You?”
“Yes.”
“At the Royal Castle that night. I did see you staring!”
Walter laughed. “Have you forgotten an alliance of our own?”
“You were . . .”
“Yes, Ania, I was the one, for God’s sakes. Now, where is my son? Go upstairs and get him.”
“He isn’t here.”
“What do you mean? You’re lying. Bring him to me at once!”
“My son is in Warsaw.”
“In Warsaw? You keep him as a bastard?”
“Isn’t that what he would be, had I not married Antoni? Your bastard.”
Walter glared at her, then laughed. “You have more spirit than I remember, cousin.”
“My son is not kept as a bastard. He is well cared for by all of us.”
His eyes narrowed. “Then why didn’t you bring him with you to the country?”
“I wanted to, but the countess and Zofia were adamant that I recoup my strength here. The child is sickly and too young for such a journey. He stayed in the city with a wet-nurse.” Would he believe her? What was his temper capable of should he discover that the child left the estate under his nose with his own mother? Anna prayed that the countess had taken him back to Warsaw; Halicz was safe now for no one.
After more questioning, Walter grudgingly let the subject of Jan Michał pass.
A chair was brought and Anna was made to sit at his side. He went on at great length bragging about his promotion to captain, his power, and his work for the Empress. Anna answered his occasional question in as few words as possible. She no longer felt that he would physically harm her. In fact, it was as if he were striving for an intimacy of some kind. What was his endgame? Anna was afraid to think about it.
Periodically, he gave orders to his men. Anna learned that the first captain she had met had left with the first detachment, leaving behind Walter and his own small force, some of whom also nursed wounds. She breathed a sigh of relief to think that captain gone, not only because of his leering glance at her, but also because he had taken notice of Jan Michał’s presence.
At that moment the Polish-speaking Russian officer came in to speak to Walter. Anna’s heart caught. Had he noticed the sleeping Jan Michał when he came to collect her aunt and the servants? She prayed not. If he had, what were the odds that he would have some occasion to mention the baby to Walter? And what about the Stelnicki maids? All of them had seen the child, fussed over him. . . .
For now, Walter seemed to take notice of his pain or perhaps he grew tired of his own voice; in any event, Anna was dismissed.
At the first opportunity, Anna spoke to Lilka, imploring her and the other maids not to mention Jan Michał.
The woman nodded knowingly. “Your aunt already instructed us. The other women have sworn their secrecy, too.”
“You recognized him?” Anna asked. “Walter?”
“Yes, Countess Grawlinska. From the time he was a boy, I knew he would turn out bad. Forgive me, but he was born with the evil eye.”
How true it was, Anna thought, that no one knows more about what goes on in a house than a servant.
As the days passed and the Russian officer said nothing to Walter about the presence of Jan Michał, Anna came to believe the child had escaped his notice.
Anna remained a prisoner in the little upstairs room. Lilka brought word that Countess Gronska and Jan Michał had returned to Warsaw. For that Anna was relieved and grateful.
From her window she watched the landscape revel in its final burst of color before its seasonal death. The weeks, like the leaves, fell away and the wheel that was the seasons turned.
Lilka did her best to see that Anna had enough to eat, but the Lenten-like menu varied little. Breakfast consisted of kasza with thin milk and sometimes a piece of fruit, fresh or dried. There was no lunch. For supper, it was black bread, a vegetable, and żur. Żur was the main meal throughout Lent and at Sochaczew Anna had often helped in the preparation of the sour soup made from fermented, raw bread dough and served over boiled potatoes. It was traditional at the end of Lent to happily break the large bowl used for making żur, so tired was everyone of the soup. For Anna and the other women on the Stelnicki estate those many months, there was no breaking of the bowl or their routine.
On occasion, Anna was allowed to borrow books from the library downstairs, where her real nourishment took place. She read every title the Stelnickis had by the French author Voltaire. She loved that his stories were cleverly stated parables highlighting the foibles and flaws of man’s character. In writing about man’s intolerance, Voltaire implied that there was little to be done in ebbing its eternal flow. “Escape if you can,” he wrote.
Escape.
Each day, Anna was made to sit at Walter’s side while his health improved. The man was full of ambition and pride. He went on at great length about his role as liaison between the Empress and King Stanisław. Anna suspected that he was merely an interpreter, but to hear him tell it, he personally had Catherine’s ear and that one day he would be a force in Russo-Polish politics.
Anna would say little in response to his pontificating. This irked him to no end.
One day, his gloating attitude suggested that he held some secret. Anna refused to give him the benefit of drawing him out on the subject—even if she were curious.
“You might be interested in the latest news, Anna,” he said at last. “Kościuszko’s forces have been repelled by the army of the Empress.”
Anna didn’t believe him. She didn’t want to believe. How could the hearts of patriots be brought low by the likes of Walter? Where was Jan? Was he safe?
“I expect that I will be returning to Russia soon,” he added, when she didn’t respond.
Anna knew he was baiting her. She tried not to appear hopeful. Would she be allowed to return to Warsaw?
“You are to send for the child,” he said.
“What?” The single word was scarcely more than a breath.
“He is to be brought here immediately.”
“Walter, he’s too young . . . and he’s in poor health.”
“No child of mine could be sickly. Look at us, Anna. His parents are survivors. He will be, too.” His plans came out, then. Anna and Jan Michał were to live in St. Petersburg. Jan Michał’s name would be changed to Walter, but he would remain Walter’s bastard. Walter was determined not to marry because marriage might jeopardize his position in the court of Catherine.
Anna’s head reeled with what he said, and didn’t say. She thanked God he did not have marriage in mind. But what was she to be to him? A mistress? Did he think she would stand for it?
“I prefer to have my son raised as a bastard,” he was saying. “History has documented that bastards make the most powerful of men.”
“And you expect me to go to Russia and raise him for you?”
“You disappoint me, Anna. Of course, it would be entirely your choice. I thought certain you would not allow anyone else to raise your son. But, seeing how you left him in Warsaw, maybe you aren’t the maternal kind?”
It was a game for him, she realized. He had checkmated her long ago and now enjoyed toying with her, forcing her from one blind square to the next.
Her anger brought her to her feet. “I would kill my son and myself before we would go to St. Petersburg with you!”
“You, Anna?” he laughed. “In the role of Medea? It doesn’t suit you.”
As Anna raced upstairs to her cell-like chamber, she could only think that her bravado had done nothing, except to amuse him further.
She threw herself onto her bed.
Escape if you can.
In the afternoon, Anna was forcibly brought downstairs when she refused to go on her own. Pen and paper were placed before her. She was to write to Aunt Stella and Zofia, requesting that they send Jan Michał without delay.
When no admonition or threat against her could make her lift the pen, Walter had Lilka brought in. Then, in a quiet, conversational tone, he told her that Lilka would lose a finger for every day that Anna delayed. He saw to it that the army surgeon was standing by.
“Do not worry for me,” Lilka said, her face hard and true.
Despite the housekeeper’s bravery, Anna inked the quill and put it to paper.
With the passing of each day, Anna became increasingly fearful of the moment when Jan Michał would be handed over to Walter.
Walter’s moods became more and more foul, too, and his temper shorter. His soldiers, like the women servants, trod lightly, lest he fly into a rage. He was still experiencing a great deal of pain and talked about going to Warsaw to consult another doctor.
Three weeks after the letter had been sent, Anna awoke to the sound of carriage wheels in the drive below. Was this the moment she had been dreading? Was Jan Michał in that carriage?
When she called out, a guard unlocked her door.
Hair undone and only her wrap around her, Anna rushed down the stairs.
A lone messenger stood in front of Walter.
No sign of Jan Michał.
“I have a letter for the Countess Berezowska-Grawlinska,” the young man said, drawing an envelope from a leather letter folder.
“Where is the child?” Walter demanded.
The man seemed puzzled. “I have only the letter.”
“I am the Countess Berezowska-Grawlinska,” Anna said, extending her trembling hand to receive the missive. Instead of feeling elation that Jan Michał was not sent, however, Anna was seized with foreboding.
Walter snatched the letter from the man’s hand and went into the reception room. Anna quickly followed.
When the letter had been opened and read, Walter looked up at Anna, his face above the black beard ashen.
The messenger had followed them into the room, and Walter turned on him now. “Wait in the hall!” he barked. “And close the doors.”
The man made a quick exit.
“What is it?” Anna asked. Her heart was pounding.
He looked at her, his face screwed into folds of fierce anger. He crumpled the parchment now and threw it at her.
Anna quickly retrieved it, unfolding its creases.
My Dearest Cousin Anna,
Merciful God has taken your child, Jan Michał. By accident, the infant swallowed my emerald stickpin. He was buried on Sunday last with the fullest graces of God and His Church.
This note comes with a carriage so that you may be returned to us, who share your loss.
With love and hope,
Zofia
Jan Michał was dead. . . . Anna’s throat went dry. She stared mindlessly at the words that blurred before her. Her son was dead. How could that be? God would not allow such a tragedy. “Jan Michał!” she screamed, finding her voice. “My baby Jan! It’s not true!” Her body stiffened and she watched her hands tear at the parchment, as if to do so would invalidate its words. “No! No! Not Jan Michał!”
Her continued screaming was suddenly interrupted when she was struck across the shoulder with a blunt object, propelling her across the room where she crashed against the wall.
Anna looked up to see Walter towering above her, sword in his hand. His face above the beard, no longer white, was inflamed now.
Anna cared little if the sword were to slice through her. It might relieve the pain. “You wouldn’t let me go to my son,”
she screamed, “now he’s dead at Zofia’s hands. Your sister killed Jan Michał!” The tears that she had withheld from Walter all these weeks filled her eyes, but she refused to allow them to fall.
Picking up the letter, Walter crushed it in his fist and pitched it away, fastening his eyes on Anna. “Damn you! And damn your son if he was so stupid. You’ll bear me another.”
“Never!” Anna spit upon him now.
Walter looked down at the spittle on his shirtsleeve, then at Anna. “When the time comes, you’ll pipe a different tune.” Throwing down his sword, Walter went out into the hallway to speak to the messenger.
Anna pulled herself up into a kneeling position. She looked at the sword, wishing she had the strength to use it on Walter. Or even on herself.
The gleam of the sword suddenly made her think of the stickpin. What agony her son must have suffered before death claimed his little soul. How could Zofia have been so careless? And how like her to be so terse in her description.
The emerald stickpin. Anna’s heart stopped. Zofia did not have the emerald stickpin. Anna had it. It was enfolded in blue velvet and placed in the box with the crystal dove. The box was at that very moment upstairs in her little room, in the bottom of the wardrobe.
The stickpin was upstairs and Jan Michał was alive. Alive. Even the word seemed to pulse. Alive. The letter was but a ruse to make Walter think his son was dead. The clever Zofia had not killed Jan Michał. She had saved him!
There was no stopping a new wave of tears, but now they were tears of relief and joy, and they were shed privately. Her son was alive, and the unsuspecting Walter had been vanquished.
Slowly, Anna became aware of the muted voices in the hallway. Walter was dismissing the messenger.
“But I was told,” the young man was insisting, “that the countess would be returning to Warsaw. That is why the carriage was sent.”
“The countess will not return to Warsaw!” Walter bellowed. “Now, be gone. If you are on this traitor’s land but two more minutes, I’ll have you shot as a traitor.”
Push Not the River Page 42
